


Elementary, Miss Ballard

by robinwritesallthethings



Series: Henry Cavill Characters [7]
Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, Corsets Are Bogus, F/M, Foreplay, Horny Sherlock Holmes, Inappropriately Attired Woman Alert, Making Out on a Fainting Couch, Partial Nudity, Plum Pie is Gross, Romance, Self-Insert, Sherlock Holmes Checks His Privilege, Sherlock Holmes Has Curls and I Can’t Even, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Plays the Violin, Sherlock Holmes is a Handful, Sherlock Holmes is a Hot Mess, So Much Feminism, Wholesome Brother Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robinwritesallthethings/pseuds/robinwritesallthethings
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has a housekeeper who turns out to be much more than that.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Robin Ballard (robinwritesallthethings)
Series: Henry Cavill Characters [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925797
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	1. Sherlock Holmes Seeks a Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes becomes determined to rectify one of the most significant voids in his life.

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and sighed as he stepped into 221B Baker Street. He took off his jacket and hung it up, loosening his tie and undoing several buttons of his shirt as he inhaled the welcoming scent of plum pie.

The recent adventure revolving around his sister Enola had revealed many truths to him, mostly about himself. He had already begun to fix what he could, but this would be his biggest step yet.

He found himself nervous. It was not a feeling he was used to.

But he steeled himself and moved into the sitting room, ready to face whatever was to come.

The space was immaculate, which was no thanks to him. He had a stalwart reputation against tidiness and order in his workspace. It was his housekeeper of five years, Miss Ballard, who was responsible for his home and everything domestic that happened inside it.

The second bedroom in his home belonged to her, while the sitting room served as his study. He took a seat in his favorite armchair and smoothed several wrinkles out of his vest, blowing out a breath as he prepared to call for her.

As usual, however, she appeared as if she had already been summoned. She was wearing a dirty apron, her hands were lightly dusted with flour, and several tendrils of her light brown hair were coming loose from her messy bun.

It occurred to him that Enola would approve of his choice. Mycroft certainly wouldn’t, but Sherlock had never let that stop him before, and he wasn’t going to let it now.

“Mr. Holmes,” she greeted him, nodding her head. “I trust your business at Scotland Yard went well?”

She had been the one who’d placed the paper in front of him that morning while he was drinking his tea and tapped the article about the House of Lords with a slim finger. It was how he’d solved the case.

Though not before Enola, apparently.

“It did,” he replied, trying not to lose his resolve.

“Supper will be ready shortly,” she continued. “And I made a plum pie.”

“I can smell it. Thank you.”

She looked at him oddly as he stood up, slipping his hands in his pockets to stop himself from fidgeting. Then she tilted her head to the side before stepping forward.

He felt her tuck his shirt in where it had come a bit loose and poked out from beneath his vest. She adjusted the vest too, smoothing it down over the spot before she stepped back again and glanced up at him.

He blinked down at her in surprise. She was one of the few people allowed to touch him without an invitation, but under the circumstances, he was having quite a different reaction than he usually did.

He still found himself at a loss for words, and her brow furrowed worriedly.

“Do you need anything else, sir?” she finally asked curiously.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes, Miss…” He paused. “May I call you Robin?”

She reached up and put her hand on his forehead.

“Are you well?” she wondered, withdrawing her hand and crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t feel feverish, but you’re acting strangely. You’ve been acting strangely for quite some time now, in fact, but not as strange as this.”

He frowned slightly and looked down at her, suddenly mesmerized by her hazel eyes. He’d never noticed that they had flecks of green in them.

“Mr. Holmes?” she persisted, her voice tinged with rare frustration. She was usually very patient with him. “Are you well or not?”

“Why would I not be?” he declared softly, gazing down at her and biting his lower lip.

She gazed back up at him incredulously. “Why would you not be?” she repeated. “You thanked me for doing my job, which you’ve never done before. And you just asked if you could call me Robin when you’ve insisted on calling me Miss Ballard the entire five years I’ve worked for you, even though I told you you could use my first name when we met.”

He smiled slightly at the memory. “I’ve always insisted on propriety, haven’t I? An oversight on my part. Please call me Sherlock, Robin.”

“Are you well, Sherlock?” she demanded bluntly, making him chuckle.

“I am well, Robin, I assure you. I wish to speak to you about something. Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.”

He gestured to the armchair next to his. “Please sit,” he offered before taking his own seat again.

She smoothed her dress under her as she sat, then wiped her hands on her apron, her brow knit with confusion and worry.

He rested his hands on his knees as he sorted out where to begin.

“It has come to my attention that I rarely consider the feelings of others during my many pursuits,” he finally observed.

A loud laugh escaped her. She immediately clapped her hand over her mouth and blushed in embarrassment, her eyes wide.

He lowered his head and looked back up at her through his lashes, grinning. “A bit of an understatement, I suspect?”

She nodded tentatively, not moving her hand.

He reached for it and carefully pulled it away from her face. “Please, Robin. You can be candid with me without consequence. I swear it.”

She swallowed, her eyes flicking to their hands, which were still joined. “So, what?” she murmured. “You want me to… help you be a better person, Sherlock? Is that it?”

“No. Well, yes,” he immediately changed his mind. “I’m trying to… arrive at a conclusion,” he explained vaguely.

“What conclusion?”

He skipped over her question entirely. “When I was searching for Enola, someone told me that I ignore the world because it suits me. Do I?”

“Yes.”

The quickness of her reply shamed him a little, but he was determined to hear what she had to say. “How so?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Well,” she stammered, “you only pay attention to what you want to. To what concerns you. And, because you’re a powerful man, there’s not much that does.”

“Explain, please?” he requested.

She pursed her lips, then continued, more confident now. “Your aversion to politics, for instance. You choose to ignore them because they’re boring. You have that luxury. You’re a wealthy, skilled man with an estate. You’re educated. You have an important job. People defer to you. So you don’t need politics.”

She sighed. “The rest of us are not so fortunate. We don’t get the same opportunities you do. Most people think a woman being educated is still ridiculous. You’d think we’d be doing better at the end of the 1800s,” she huffed. “My point is that people like me have to pay attention, because we don’t have the same rights you do. You’re indifferent, and that’s a privilege.”

“It’s also why you didn’t solve your latest case sooner,” she pointed out. “You had no motive, but it was sitting right in front of your face. It just wasn’t important to you, so it never occurred to you that it was important to anyone else.”

He nodded along with her, taking every word seriously. “I always thought logic was the most important component of detective work,” he mused. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, Sherlock,” she disagreed. “It’s just that logic and emotion don’t have to be entirely removed from each other. You always imply that people can be either logical or emotional, but they can be both. Aren’t people’s feelings often the root of why they committed a crime?”

“Indeed they are,” he admitted.

“And, since we’re being frank, it would be good for you to pay more attention to the world around you,” she chastised him. “Do you know how many cases you wouldn’t have solved if I hadn’t shoved a newspaper under your nose and pointed you in the right direction?”

He was immediately doing the math in his head. The results surprised him. She was right. “I take you for granted, don’t I, Robin?” he whispered.

She sighed and reluctantly admitted, “Yes, Sherlock, you do. I help you more than anyone else, but you get all the credit for the work.”

She pulled her hand from his and stood, crossing her arms over her chest again and pacing. She seemed angry, and he could hardly blame her. “If it weren’t for me, Sherlock, you’d never remember to eat. Your home would be a disaster. Who organizes your files, finds your notes, makes sure your clothes are clean and pressed, takes your messages while you’re away and smooths things over for you socially when you make mistakes? Yet it’s all you, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes. People revere you, not to mention tiptoe around you for fear of upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”

He frowned deeply. “Do you tiptoe around me, Robin?”

“I work for you, Sherlock. Of course I do. If I didn’t, I assume I wouldn’t still be here.”

“What do you do?”

She stopped and pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Do you really want to hear this, Sherlock?”

She was clearly uncomfortable, which he suddenly hated, but he had to know. It was the only way to get to the heart of the problem. “Yes, Robin.”

“All right,” she sighed, crossing her arms once more and staring down at her feet. “Do you remember my lavender dress?” she wondered next.

“I don’t recall you owning a lavender dress, no.”

“It was the first year I worked for you. I hadn’t been able to afford new clothes for some time. I saved up to buy that dress. I thought it was beautiful. Suitable for working, of course, but still the nicest thing I had ever owned.”

He glanced up and took in her appearance. He’d never bothered to look at her the way he was now. She really was quite fetching. Her figure was lush and curvy, her skin was smooth and clear. Her lips were full and there was a rather adorable swoop at the end of her nose.

The dress she was wearing currently was a deep shade of blue, one of his favorite colors. It finally dawned on him that she wasn’t wearing a corset or hip regulators. She was entirely natural.

“You don’t wear a corset or hip regulators,” he said aloud.

She laughed and shook her head ruefully. “I do when I go out, since it’s proper. But here I do not, unless you’re expecting company.” She tapped her foot against the floor. “Five years and you’ve never noticed. World’s greatest detective my arse.”

His mouth dropped open briefly and then he laughed. Her cheeks blazed self-consciously, but she stood her ground.

“Tell me about the lavender dress, Robin,” he insisted gently.

“Fine,” she practically snapped. “I wore it once, the day after I’d purchased it. You’d never noticed my clothes before, but I suppose you did that day because you didn’t like them. You told me that lavender was a terrible color and that the dress was ghastly.”

He felt some of the color drain from his face. He had said that to her?

He was sure that he had.

“As soon as I could, I took it off,” she finished. “I folded it up and never wore it again. It’s still in the bottom of my trunk.”

“I…”

“I’m not done,” she interrupted him, something she’d never dared to do before. She stared at him directly now as she began to list things off. “I hate the smell of tobacco, but I’ve never asked you to not smoke in the house. I tire of listening to the same Paganini compositions over and over, but I’ve never asked you to change music. I keep all of my novels under my bed because you couldn’t resist saying something if you saw me reading them.”

“Oh,” she added petulantly, “and I despise plum pie.”

“You make plum pie for us every night,” he protested.

“I make plum pie for you every night, Sherlock,” she corrected him.

“But I’ve never asked you to defer to me that way,” he argued weakly.

“I’m your employee, Sherlock. To a certain extent, I’m expected to do those things for you. But you are so particular. If things aren’t exactly the way you like them, your mood is foul and then you’re even harder to deal with. So it’s please you or suffer the consequences, really.”

She turned away from him, but not before he saw the tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she revealed. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to discern.”

He stood and walked to her, putting his hands gently on her shoulders. “I’m trying to change,” he told her. “I’ve already told Mycroft that Enola is my ward from now on. When I find her, I am going to ask her to come live with me. With us.”

She whirled and looked up into his eyes. “You told Mycroft that?” she wondered softly. “Truly?”

“I did,” he confirmed.

“You’ve never shown that kind of interest in your family before. Particularly Enola,” she murmured.

“Well, I am now. As it turns out, she’s quite like me in many ways. I think you’d like each other.”

“I’m sure we would.” She paused and frowned. “I don’t understand, though. Is that not the change you seek? What else is there? All this talk of ill treatment and taking for granted, it… confuses me.” 

He swallowed. “Well, Robin, I’m trying to discover if… if you might have feelings for me.”

Her eyes became impossibly wide. “What?” she whispered hoarsely. She licked her lips. “What, Sherlock?”

“Before you, I had six housekeepers in one year,” he admitted. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to leave. And you never have. Five years later, you’re still here, and you’ve never married. When I looked at that evidence, and allowed myself to think about the emotion connected to it, I thought that perhaps you might… love me.”

She opened and closed her mouth several times, very much resembling a fish. He waited. He’d never felt quite this vulnerable before.

Finally, she managed to stutter, “And that would matter to you why?”

“Because I wish to marry,” he replied simply.

“And what? I’m just the most convenient choice?” she scoffed, glossing over the fact that he’d never shown any inclination to marry before.

“Of course not, Robin. My evidentiary review has revealed that I love you.”

“You what?” she gasped in disbelief.

He smiled at her indulgently. “Robin, I know I’ve never said it, but I… value you beyond measure. You are the only warmth, the only kindness in my life. You’re intelligent and savvy. You know me, and even though I am difficult to be around, still you persist. You could easily find a job elsewhere, but you don’t, even though I’ve clearly been an abominable employer. So there must be something else holding you here, and the only conclusion I can come to is that… it’s me,” he finished hopefully.

“I… I need a moment,” she stalled, turning and retreating back to the kitchen.

He stayed where he was, thinking over everything that had just been said. Had he gone about all of this the wrong way?

He cautiously made his way to the kitchen. It occurred to him that he had never been inside it since inspecting the home before he rented it.

It was just as neat and tidy as the rest of the house. The only sign of a mess was the flour on the counter, the same that had dusted her hands when he’d arrived home. She was bent over checking on supper, and she tensed when he entered the room behind her.

He paused, trying to think of what to say to comfort her, but before he could, she spoke.

“I’m not a good match for you, Sherlock,” she informed him quietly. “Society, not to mention Mycroft, would hardly approve.”

“I don’t care about society or Mycroft,” he assured her.

“You should. Even you can’t defy every convention.”

She still hadn’t turned to look at him, and she stayed facing the wall as she started to list all of the reasons he shouldn’t choose her.

“I’m American,” she began bitterly. “That alone would be enough for Mycroft. I have no land, no inheritance, and make very little money, most of which comes from you. I’m a liberal who believes in reform, and I have the gall to suggest that I should be equal, despite being a woman.”

She sighed and paused. “And…”

“And what, Robin?” Sherlock wondered. “None of those things bother me. If they were truly obstacles, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

“The last one might,” she mumbled, finally turning to face him. “I have something for you to read that will answer all of your questions, but you’ll have to briefly put aside your aversion to romances.”

He raised an eyebrow, but decided to play along. “All right.”

“Go sit at the table,” she instructed. “Supper is ready. I’ll bring the book with it.”

He obeyed, taking his usual seat and waiting. She brought supper out, laying the dishes carefully on the table, setting the plum pie in the center, right in front of his plate. Lastly, as promised, she withdrew a slim volume from the pocket of her apron and set it beside him.

He picked it up and turned to the title page. “ _The Mystery of the Missing Mummy_ ,” he read. “By A Lady.”

When he looked up again, she was standing by the chessboard, staring at it thoughtfully. Though they didn’t often have time to play a full game, they would frequently play prolonged ones, moving pieces whenever either of them had a free moment.

He watched as she moved the queen, then headed for her room.

“You’re not staying?” he called after her.

She paused long enough to answer. “I’m not hungry. I’ll return when you’re finished to clean up.”

She didn’t give him the chance to say anything more before she disappeared. He considered going after her, but then turned back to supper and the book.

She had said it would answer all of his questions, and he trusted her.

The next thing he knew, she was lighting the lamps and clearing away what he hadn’t eaten. The plum pie was entirely gone, and he had finished the book.

It was about a famous detective and his housekeeper. When the mummy she liked to visit at the British Museum went missing, she insisted on being allowed to help solve the case. Realizing how often she’d helped him, the detective decided to let her.

Through the course of the novel, they not only solved the mystery, but he came to understand that he was in love with her. At the end of the story, he proposed to her, she accepted, and they received another case that he insisted they solve together.

He held the book up in his hand and glanced at it, then at her. “Famous detective Henry Shaw and his housekeeper, Beatrice Nightingale,” he said.

She swallowed self-consciously as he unnecessarily added, “It’s you and me. You wrote this. You’re a published author.”

He stood and went to her, cupping her cheek in his hand, placing his thumb under her chin and tipping it up so she was looking at him. Confronted with his gaze, she simply replied, “Yes.”

“How long?” he wondered. “How long have you… loved me?”

Her eyes softened and she smiled at him. “Quite since the moment I met you, I believe. Not all at once, of course. Much of it happened over time. But by the end of the first year, my affections were secure.”

“Yet you never said a word,” he murmured. “Why?”

She laughed lightly. “You once told me to look for what was there and not what I wanted to be there, Sherlock. You have never shown the slightest interest in women or marriage. And I was determined not to be a fool. If I had said anything, you would have scoffed at me. Probably even dismissed me. And I thought that, well, this was better than that.”

“And the book? When was it written?”

“It was published last year, and I wrote it the year before that. I’m almost done with the second volume. _The Case of the Cantankerous Crone_.”

“Well, if it is as enjoyable as this one, I must request that you allow me to read it early.”

She shook her head slightly. “You didn’t enjoy it,” she muttered. “You hate adventure. You hate love. It was an adventure during which two people fell in love.”

“One,” he corrected. “One already was.”

“You and semantics,” she quipped.

“Why did you think I needed to read this before we spoke further?” he wondered.

He moved briefly to set the book down by the chessboard. When he spotted her move, he pushed one of his pieces into place before turning back to her.

“It is scandalous for a woman to read, let alone write,” she reminded him. “And I have no intention of stopping, though the money is rather poor.”

“But you made money?” he inquired.

“I did. I’d make more if I didn’t insist on revealing my gender, but I must set a precedent. For the next woman who comes after me. It might be easier for her if I do this,” she explained firmly, her jaw set.

“You have always been a woman of principle, Robin,” he confirmed, a look of admiration on his face. “You fear that if we wed and your identity as a writer is revealed, my name will suffer?”

“Well, of course.”

Her face fell and he reached out to clasp her upper arms before she could run away again. “And if I told you that that doesn’t matter to me?” he wondered. “If I told you that, in fact, it raises you even higher in my already very high estimation?”

She swallowed nervously. “I’d say you’re quite mad, but that shouldn’t surprise anyone who knows you.”

He chuckled, but the sound quickly died on his lips when she tentatively reached up and brushed one hand through his curls while the other gently traced the dimple in his chin. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

“Is this what you truly want, Sherlock?” she asked softly.

“Do you think I would ask if it wasn’t?” He opened his eyes and stared down at her. “Marry me, Robin. I will find us a home so you have your own household, not just a flat. We shall have a family of our own, and you can write as many books as you like. Put your name on them. If a publisher will not take them that way, I will publish them for you.”

She looked away from him for a moment and caught sight of the chessboard. She shook her head and stepped away to move to it.

He followed her, putting his hand on the small of her back. “It’s checkmate,” he observed confidently.

“No, it’s not,” she corrected him, reaching out for her queen again. “You always forget that the queen is the most powerful piece on the board, Sherlock.” She moved hers one square over and looked up at him. “That’s checkmate.”

“Hm.” He studied the board. “As always, you know better than me.”

“As always?” she wondered skeptically.

“I’ve just never realized it,” he admitted, then bit his lip. “Is that why you will not say yes to me? Because I am truly, truly sorry, Robin.”

“I haven’t said yes or no, Sherlock,” she reminded him.

“If you love me, and I do not disapprove of any of your behavior, why would you say no?”

“Part of me wants to prove a point to you,” she revealed. “That just because you’ve decided you want this doesn’t mean you can have it.”

He briefly touched the queen on the chessboard. “You’re the most powerful piece on the board, Robin. The choice is yours.”

His voice was heavy and laced with sadness, but that was the way it had to be. He wasn’t going to force her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

“I could never say no to you, Sherlock,” she whispered.

His eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat, but before he could respond, she turned and threw her arms around his shoulders, standing on her tiptoes and pulling him down into a passionate kiss.

He bent down more, recalling how much shorter she was than him, then gripped her hips in his hands as he ardently kissed her back.

It was a sensation he had never given any thought to, because he had never wanted to experience it. Now that he was finally feeling it, he couldn’t get enough.

She pulled back after a moment and wrinkled her nose. “You taste like that wretched plum pie,” she complained.

He laughed and kissed her again, thoroughly enjoying having her lips against his. “Make me something different tomorrow night,” he suggested playfully.

“Why don’t you make me something for once?” she retorted just as playfully.

“I do not think you would want to risk the building by letting me in the kitchen,” he teased.

“No, I would not,” she agreed, gasping as he experimentally kissed his way down her jaw to her ear.

“I do believe it is scandalous for us to kiss before we are wed,” he murmured before moving his lips to her neck.

“And who’s going to tell?” she wondered.

“Not me,” he promised, eagerly kissing her again, lifting her up against him. “I could kiss you forever, Robin.”

“I might let you, Sherlock.”

Eventually, though, her growling stomach interrupted them. He insisted she eat and went to retrieve the remains of their supper for her.

When he returned to the study, she was lying on the fainting couch he often read on in just her shift, having taken her dress off. Her chest was heaving up and down with each breath, and her skin was flushed all over.

He sat down beside her and smoothed some of her hair out of her face. “I quite enjoy you looking like this,” he decided.

“Play for me while I eat?” she requested softly.

“Of course,” he relented, getting up to retrieve his violin.

He put his bow to the strings, then frowned. “You said you’re tired of Paganini,” he remembered.

She smiled as she ate a slice of roast with her hands. “I like anything if you’re the one playing it, Sherlock,” she confessed.

“Still. Who do you prefer?”

“Chopin,” she admitted.

He nodded. “I can do that.”

She watched him fondly while she dined. He played her every Chopin piece he knew until she was done, then sat down beside her again.

“Tomorrow we’ll go out and buy you the most beautiful lavender dress in all of London,” he promised.

She blushed. “You don’t have to do that, Sherlock.”

“But I want you to be happy,” he protested.

“I’m already happy,” she promised him. “You make me happy, Sherlock. Not possessions.”

He cupped her face in his hands. “Then I shall do whatever I can to keep it that way,” he swore.

He leaned down and kissed her again, slowly pressing her onto her back on the fainting couch. She slid her hand up into his hair, tugging on his curls as his kisses grew more urgent.

“I love you, Robin,” he whispered between kisses.

“I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered back.

He knew he’d made many mistakes in his life, and the time had come to correct them. As far as he could tell, he was off to an excellent start.


	2. Unlaced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin needs to get her corset off, so Sherlock helps.

Robin groaned as soon as Sherlock shut the door behind them.

“Get me out of this thing, please!” she requested adamantly.

He chuckled, immediately setting down their packages, grasping her by the shoulders as she struggled to get out of her dress.

“Let me, darling,” he soothed her.

He guided her over to the fainting couch and made deft work of the ties on her gorgeous lavender gown, the one he had purchased for her shortly after their first conversation about marriage. She had protested, just as before, but the look on her face had revealed how much she loved it.

Except when she had to wear it with a corset. As much as she wished she could get away without one in public, it was too noticeable, and she was already stretching the boundaries of propriety with her behavior, much less her attire.

Sherlock unfastened her hip regulators first. While he had fastidiously laid her dress over a nearby chair, he tossed the hip regulators aside unceremoniously and then began to unlace her corset.

She rested a hand on the back of the couch, panting as the pressure on her torso loosened. When he finally removed the stiff construction of whale bone, she sighed in relief as her breasts tumbled down into their natural position. They still strained the fabric of her undergarments, but it was a much more comfortable fit.

She immediately laid down to catch her breath. Sherlock watched her appreciatively as he took off his own jacket and shoes, then stretched out beside her.

“I disagree with corsets entirely,” he mused, smirking up at her. “They ruin the lovely shape and weight of spectacular breasts like yours.”

“Making a study of other women’s breasts, are you?” she asked archly, winking at him.

He laughed and shook his head. “I would never,” he assured her.

She ruffled his hair with a hand. “You’ve become positively playful, Sherlock Holmes,” she observed. “By the time we are actually wed, you will be incorrigible.”

“Our wedding is only a few weeks away,” he reminded her. “There is no danger now.”

He reached up, squeezing one of her breasts as he said it. He had been greatly yearning for her body ever since she had accepted his proposal, and though they had found satisfaction in many ways, he was still waiting for the greatest.

“Unless it’s delayed because of a case, like it has been the last three times,” she admonished him. “Enough scandal surrounds our family already, Sherlock. The last thing we need is for me to be pregnant before we are officially husband and wife.”

“Why did I ever say such a foolish thing?” he wondered, bending and kissing the swell of her breast.

It had been at his insistence that they had stopped that first night. He knew that she, and by extension he, was right, of course, but it was hard to remember when he was with her like this.

“Because you are usually right, Sherlock, as much as I hate to admit it.”

“My cross to bear,” he murmured, lowering his head and beginning to kiss her cleavage earnestly, squeezing her breasts, pushing them up, his thumbs finding her nipples and circling them teasingly.

He was gratified when she moaned beneath him. “What if I swear,” he promised, “that our wedding will not be delayed another time?”

“You swore the first three times,” Robin pointed out.

“I know,” he rumbled, biting down gently.

“Mmm…” she hummed happily, arching her back.

“Are you sure?” he questioned.

“It’s not fair asking me now,” she whined. “I’ve been wearing that brutal thing all day. I ache and release would be… sweet.”

“I can give you release, my darling.”

He kissed his way up the column of her throat to her jaw, dragging his lips to her mouth, then claiming it. She tugged at his tie until it was hanging off of his collar, then released the buttons on his vest, pulling his shirt free of his trousers and running her fingers over his bare skin.

He kissed her deeply, sliding the tiny sleeves of her undergarments over her arms and tugging her bodice down until her breasts were exposed.

He threw his shirt over his head before bending to kiss her again, reaching between them to push her thighs apart so he could press closer to her.

Her fingertips traced the muscles in his back before sinking into his hair. She wrapped her legs around his waist and made a strangled noise in her throat when she felt how hard he was.

“All right, I give in,” she breathed.

He surged against her, pressing her even deeper into the couch.

Neither of them heard the pounding at the door, or the subsequent cries for Sherlock Holmes.

It was only when he was standing right in front of them speaking that they finally became aware of his presence.

“Brother!” he sputtered angrily. “What in the name of God is going on here?”


	3. An Explanation is Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft expresses his opinion about his brother’s choice of bride.

Robin froze as soon as she heard Mycroft’s voice, hoping against hope that she would somehow just melt away into nothingness beneath Sherlock on the couch.

She didn’t, of course. At the very least, Sherlock was so massive that she was certain Mycroft couldn’t see anything important.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said tersely, his voice slightly strained. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

“I did knock,” Mycroft responded testily. “You didn’t answer.”

Sherlock sighed as he reached down to grab his shirt from the floor. He stared apologetically down at Robin as he lifted her and draped it over her back so she could put it on.

After she’d buttoned it, he stood, taking a deep breath and turning around. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Well, I wanted to talk about how your efforts to find our wayward sister were proceeding, but clearly you’re not very concerned with that,” Mycroft sniffed distastefully.

“Enola will be just fine on her own, Mycroft,” Sherlock pointed out patiently. “And she is certainly smart enough to come to my very well-known address if she needs help.”

Robin blew out a breath and stood up with as much dignity as she could muster. “Why don’t I make some tea, gentlemen?” she suggested.

Mycroft’s eyes went wide as he took her in. “For the love of God, Sherlock. Your housekeeper? You could at least find a respectable woman and settle down if you’re going to do this. Don’t we have enough scandals as it is?”

Robin swallowed. Strangely enough, this moment was about to mean a lot to her. Sherlock tended to avoid arguing if the topic was too personal, and this was exceedingly personal.

But if he didn’t defend her against his brother, it was going to hurt her badly. To the point where she might have to reconsider marrying him.

To her surprise, he responded immediately and ardently, drawing himself up to his full height, his stance tense as he stared Mycroft down.

“If you’re going to speak poorly of the woman who’s going to be my wife, Mycroft, you can leave.”

Mycroft laughed. “You cannot be serious,” he snapped.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked.

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Why can’t I be serious?” Sherlock clarified.

“She’s your housekeeper,” Mycroft immediately protested. “Respectable gentlewomen don’t work, Sherlock.”

Robin snorted. “Well, I’m hardly a respectable gentlewoman, so no harm done there.”

Sherlock smirked in her direction, but Mycroft clearly didn’t think there was anything funny about the situation. “Precisely my point, um… whatever your name is. You are not a suitable match for my brother.”

She was aware of that, of course, but she was hardly going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of hearing her say it.

“I am the one who gets to decide that, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied firmly.

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Mycroft retorted sarcastically. “You’ve never cared about marriage. I bet she’s been slowly working her claws into you since the moment she got here.”

“She has been nothing but proper,” Sherlock disagreed. “I approached her. I convinced her.” He licked his lips and then bit the lower one thoughtfully. “She loves me in spite of who I am, not because of it. I’m a very lucky man.”

A small gasp escaped her and she moved forward reflexively, touching his arm. But before she could say anything, Mycroft started ranting.

“Then let me talk you out of it, brother. She’s American, which is awful enough. And, as she so crassly pointed out, she’s not a gentlewoman. She has no land, no inheritance, nothing to recommend her at all. And if that’s not enough, she clearly understands propriety, but doesn’t adhere to it, which is honestly worse than ignorance.”

“None of those things matter to me,” Sherlock murmured.

He gazed down at her, reaching out and touching her cheek as she stared back up at him. “She takes care of me. She is honest with me. She tries to help me see and overcome my shortcomings. She is wonderfully intelligent. And, of course, she is exceedingly beautiful.”

He looked back at his brother. “I am marrying her, Mycroft. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Mycroft sneered. “Fine. Don’t come running to me when it all falls apart.”

He turned to leave.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock called after him. “Stop looking for Enola. I’ll handle it from now on. And you’re not invited to my wedding.”

Mycroft made a sound of disapproval. Then the door banged open and shut and he was gone.

Sherlock sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that killed the mood for you.”

Robin laughed. “Are you serious?”

She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss.

Sherlock hummed and pressed her back down onto the fainting couch. “Was it something I said?” he teased, smiling against her lips.

“It was everything you said.” She leaned back and cupped his face in her hands. “Thank you for defending me.”

“Of course I defended you. I love you.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she whispered.

“You did?”

“You have a bad habit of avoiding confrontation when the topic is personal.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m not going to let anyone talk about you like that, Robin. Especially my own brother. He’s a horrible judge of character.”

She giggled. “Yes. Yes, he is. Now, where were we?”

She slid her hand down between his legs and he groaned. But, with a great effort, he lifted himself off of her, sat down, and pulled her into his lap.

“Perhaps you were right. Perhaps we should wait,” he agreed heavily, resting his forehead against hers.

“You are going to be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I hope not.”

“What changed your mind? Was it something Mycroft said?”

“Hardly. But, well.” He paused. “Is the only reason you desire to wait because you don’t want to cause a scandal?”

She tilted her head to the side curiously. “No,” she finally decided. “No, it isn’t.”

“Why, then?”

She slung one arm around his shoulders and traced his lips with her other hand. “Of course I don’t want to cause a scandal for your family, Sherlock. But if that were truly my only concern, I wouldn’t marry you at all.”

His eyes widened briefly in panic, but she instantly soothed him. “I’m going to. I’m selfish like that.”

He smiled at her softly as she continued. “Perhaps it’s foolish for a… modern woman like me to think this,” she admitted, “but there’s something sacred about that choice, Sherlock. Who you… give yourself to. I’m not a virgin just because I’m not married. It’s just that there was never anyone I wanted, and never anyone who I felt deserved me, until I met you. And, if we’re going to make it official, I supposed it seemed like the right thing to wait for the occasion.” She bit her lip and looked up at him self-consciously. “Am I being silly?”

“Not at all,” he reassured her.

“Why do you not want to wait, Sherlock, if I may ask?”

“Of course you may.” He stared at her, reaching up to touch her cheek and stroke her hair. “I don’t like most people, Robin. I know you’re aware of that. It’s not that I didn’t desire companionship, or even physical pleasure, but I always assumed I would not find them. And I certainly never felt desire for a particular person before. I suppose I’m afraid that my desire might… disappear. Not my feelings. Those are very constant. But my desire, specifically.”

He shook his head and made a soft noise of frustration. “I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

“It does.” She kissed him, sliding her hand into his curls. “I had no idea, Sherlock.” She hesitated, then added, “We can. If you want it now, we can.”

“That’s not fair,” he admonished her gently. “I can wait.”

“I don’t want to rob you of your desire, Sherlock,” she countered.

“And I don’t want you to have to give in to my whims any longer,” he told her firmly. “You’ve catered to me for so long.”

“I’ll always give in to some of them. People in a relationship make concessions sometimes, Sherlock. We’ll be no different. We just have to make sure it evens out in the end. You can’t do everything because of me, and I can’t do everything because of you. And, just to be clear, sex isn’t one of those concessions. If your desire isn’t there, I’m not going to demand it from you. Even on our wedding night.”

He smiled at her bashfully. “You really are a different kind of woman, Robin.”

“You’re a different kind of man, Sherlock.”

He chuckled and leaned down to kiss her. When he pulled back, she got up. “Why don’t I make us some dinner?” she suggested.

“Why don’t I walk down to the pub and bring something back for both of us instead?” he offered. “So you don’t have to cook.”

“That would be even better,” she confessed, flopping back down on the couch.

He leaned over her for one more kiss. “I’ll need my shirt back,” he reminded her.

She pouted, but sat up and undid the buttons while he found the rest of his clothes. She stood to help him put himself back together.

“There. Perfectly respectable,” she announced.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he promised.

She nodded. “Thank you, Sherlock. I love you.”

“I love you, Robin.”

He kissed her cheek and then set out.

She laid back down, staring at the ceiling.

She didn’t know how, but she had certainly gotten lucky on the day that she’d met the world’s greatest detective.


End file.
